


The Seamstress and the Dancer

by TeaAndCakeOrDeath



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: Argentine Tango, Ballet, Close Tango, Dancing, Operas, Sewing, There will be smut.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:34:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22430389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaAndCakeOrDeath/pseuds/TeaAndCakeOrDeath
Summary: The date: 12th February 2019. The buzz: The Director's lace-up pants from the Grammys on 10th February 2019. The mission: recreate the look for a reluctant Cardinal Copia.
Comments: 19
Kudos: 21





	1. Measuring

## One … Measuring

12th February 2019

Today, she was nervous. There was no reason to be. She was a grown woman, not a novice still uncertain of her place or her purpose. The Church had been her home almost her whole adult life. The walls of the Abbey comforted her in a way that a mundane house never had. And yet she hesitated outside the door to the his office, fidgeting with the box held close to her chest. The Cardinal often seemed preoccupied and nervous when she saw him around the campus. His mood was contagious and set her on edge more often than not. But Sister Imperator had given her a task, asking as a personal favor. And no one said no to Sister Imperator. She knocked on the old double door, the sound echoing down the stone hallway behind her.

After a few moments, she heard a muffled voice.  
“Yes, yes, come in.”

With a deep breath, she opened one of the doors and stepped into the Cardinal’s office. It was cozy compared to his predecessor’s cavernous and ostentatious rooms. Papa was all about image and style. The Cardinal was a different man. Bookshelves lined all the walls, floor to ceiling. There were several stands around the room displaying ancient books and scrolls with protective glass coverings. The large fireplace was blazing, an ornate metal screen protecting the armchairs in front of it from sparks. The man himself was hunched over his desk, neat stacks of books and papers covering almost every inch of the wood. He was writing on a tablet computer with quick sharp strokes of the stylus while glancing at several open books. Preoccupied, as usual. She stood in front of his desk, patiently waiting.

After a few minutes, the Cardinal looked up and his eyes widened. 

“Ah, Sister! Forgive me!” He shuffled the books around, looking for bookmarks, closing and stacking each one next to his tablet with slightly shaking hands. Nervous, as usual. He stood and scooted around the desk, wringing his hands. “What can I do for you today?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, Cardinal, but Imperator told me to meet you this morning for measurements.”

His face froze. “Imperator? Measurements?” His hands clasped together more tightly.

“Yes. She requested that custom piece.”

No recognition.

“Like the one the Director wore to the Grammys?”

A slight look of panic.

“The trousers with the laces?”

Definite panic.

“Did she, um, neglect to inform you?”

The faintest sheen of sweat had formed at his temples. “She might have mentioned it. I’ve been very busy with important work,” he said weakly.

“It’s just measurements today. Then I’ll work on a rough version. It’s just to get an idea of how they would look on you and if you feel comfortable wearing them. If all goes well, then the official costumer can make you some when she gets back from Milan.” She smiled at him reassuringly. But his nerves were catching.

“I didn’t know you worked with the designer,” he blurted. A little knot formed in her stomach. Her hands tightened on her sewing box.

“I don’t. But she’s unavailable and I used to be a seamstress. And Imperator is very good at finding a use for every resource at her disposal.”

“Yes, she is at that,” he said, going from shock to amusement and back again. “It won’t take long, will it? I have so much to do…”

“I’ll be as quick as I can,” she said.

The Cardinal turned his head left and right, eyes scanning the room before coming back to her. “Where do you want me?”

“Huh?” She coughed and cleared her throat. “In the light by the desk would be best.” 

He shuffled over and struck a pose, his hands on his hips, and gave her a slight shrug. It was so awkward and endearing that she smiled. Her hands barely shook as she opened her sewing box and took out her old measuring tape, a small notebook and mechanical pencil. She left the box in a chair and moved to stand in front of the Cardinal. The black button-up shirt and simple trousers he wore would make it easy to get the measurements. 

“I have to get close to do these. Is that alright?” she asked.

“Of course, Sister.”

“Arms out to your sides. First is the waist,” she said, leaning forward.

The Cardinal’s eyes widened just a bit as she circled her arms around him and brought the measuring tape together in the front. Being so close, she could smell his cologne. It was light, a hard to define combination that reminded her of the sea. A small sigh escaped her. Something about that scent struck a chord. Shaking her head, she leaned back.

“Next is the hips.” She slid the tape down to find the widest point and noticed her palms were starting to sweat. She kept her eyes on the tape and definitely not on anything just below it. Withdrawing the tape and stepping back, she recorded the numbers in her notebook. She risked a glance at his face. The faintest hint of pink was creeping up his cheeks.

“Now for the legs.” She knelt in front of him, focusing her attention on the task at hand. Circling one thigh with the tape, she took several measurements from the widest point down to the knee, then from the knee down to the ankle. His thighs were thick and firm, his calves like a runner's. He seemed to always be on his toes. By the time she moved to the other leg, she could feel her face burning. Keeping her eyes down and pointing to his right leg, she said “bend this knee, please.”

“How far?”

“Just there…”

More scribbling in her notebook. 

“You can relax. We’re almost done,” she said tightly, tilting her head to look up at him. He was looking down at her, but when their eyes met, his darted away quickly. She hurried to measure the side lengths.

“Now for the inseam.” She spoke a little louder than she meant to, willing her hands to be steady. She held her notebook up to him. “Put this between your legs, as high as you’re comfortable.” His eyebrows rose but he kept his gaze on anything but her. He reached blindly for the notebook and quickly shoved it into place, squeezing his thighs together. “Make sure you’re comfortable,” she said more quietly. What might have been a stifled laugh made him wheeze and clear his throat as he adjusted the height. She measured from the top edge of the notebook to the floor and then quickly got to her feet. Head spinning, she held out her hand for her notebook. He handed it to her and for a few moments they both held it, really looking at each other for the first time. 

They were both tired, shoulders slightly bowed with the weight of their responsibilities, eyes shadowed from lack of sleep. They were both blushing like teenagers in spite of their years with a clergy that celebrated all manner of sins. They were both reluctant to look away, to move apart, but somehow more unwilling to move closer. He let go of the notebook with visible effort and the spell was broken.

“I’ll bring the prototype by tomorrow for a fitting,” she said as she gathered her sewing box and hurried for the door as fast as her feet could carry her. She glanced over her shoulder as she left and he was still standing there, in the pool of light by the fireplace, watching her leave.


	2. Construction and Composition

## Two … Construction and Composition

A nightmare. Trying to complete a prototype in one day and one night for a reluctant man whom she could barely look in the eye! At least the costuming rooms were well appointed with fabric choices and a range of machines. Imperator had given her access to all the resources they had on hand and it was a struggle to stay focused instead of touching all the fabric. Linen, silk, velvet... Even the cutting table was impressive - 8 feet long and covered in self-healing cutting mat material. She felt an insane little urge to strip and climb up on it, to lay down and discover what the surface would feel like on the bare skin of her back. A wave of heat washed up her neck and face as she remembered looking into the Cardinal’s eyes. But there were more important things to do. She had to focus.

The pattern took most of the day and evening as she stared at reference photos of the Director and remembered her rusty drafting skills. She made a muslin test garment just to make sure she was on the right track and briefly considered asking the Cardinal to try it on. But she needed all the time she had if she was going to finish. It definitely wasn’t due to a lack of bravery. At least that’s what she told herself. Instead she compared it to another muslin draft she found in the sewing room. The note on it showed it was over a year old but the measurements were right on with what she’d written in her notebook. Clearly the Cardinal’s jokes about gaining weight from all that good food were exaggerated. He was always making jokes at his own expense. Another thing they had in common.

Late in the evening it took all her courage to cut the material for the pants. She paced and checked her work over and over before wielding the scissors. Her heart stuttered at the first cut but she kept going. Soon she was lost in the satisfying *shink* of the scissors and the parting fabric pieces. It was like meditation, slipping into a creative trance and making art. Cutting, assembling, pinning flew by and then she was at the machine, putting pieces together, making magic. She didn’t realize how much she’d missed it.

So close… she was so close to finishing… Her eyes were so heavy and the hum of the machine was entrancing…

Back in the Cardinal’s office. The only light from the dying fire. Shadows slipping across the floor. From where she knelt she could feel the warmth of the coals on her back. He was sitting very close to her in one of the well-worn leather armchairs, legs crossed and arms draped over the sides. His white suit seemed to glow in the dimness, the contrast painful to the eyes. She blinked and he was holding his walking cane. Such a vanity, an affectation, but it looked so good. He rapped it once on the hardwood floor and the sound reverberated through the room. 

He was so close that she could smell his cologne again. But not close enough to touch. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward slowly, extending his cane until it was just within reach. She felt the tip under her chin, pushing up. She raised her head higher and dared a look at his face, but it was lost in shadow. Only his gleaming left eye stood out, shining like his white suit, demanding attention.

She blinked again and the cane was gone. He reached out his hand to her in slow motion as he slid to the edge of the armchair.. But instead of the black and white leather gloves he always wore with that suit, his hands were bare. Long, thin fingers moved closer and closer to her face. She could see every detail of his hand, the closely trimmed nails, the calluses on his thumb and middle finger from writing, the lines on his palm. She couldn’t help but lean forward. He was almost touching her cheek. So close...

A jolt and she was awake, still in the sewing room, clutching the prototype. She’d fallen asleep while adding the laces, her head on her arm as she sat at the cutting table. Sunlight streamed through the East facing windows and a thrill of panic shot through her. It was time for the fitting...


	3. Fitting and Fine Tuning

## Three … Fitting and Fine Tuning

13th February 2019

Early in the morning she stood outside his office, accouterments in hand, hesitating at the faint sound of classical music seeping through the doors. It sounded familiar but it was hard to tell with the muffled distortion. Best to get this over with. One knock. Two. A louder third knock. Still no answer. Taking a deep breath, she cracked open one door just an inch.

He was dancing. The music was exuberant, the sound slightly scratchy, playing on an antique phonograph near his desk. The brass horn shimmered in the diffuse morning light. He pirouetted first one direction and then another. He seemed to float across the floor in his black dancer’s slippers and it sounded very much like he was laughing. It was entrancing and she got lost in watching his joy. Then the music stopped and so did he, arms outstretched as if holding something in each hand. She remembered to breathe. Loudly. His eyes snapped to her face. 

For a split second she wanted to squeak and slam the door, but she steeled her nerves and instead swung it wider.

“I’m so sorry to bother you, Cardinal. I’ve been knocking for a few minutes. I can come back later if this isn’t a good time.”

He shook himself and calmly straightened his dress shirt and smoothed his pants. “No, no! Come in. Now is as good a time as any,” he said.

As she laid out the prototype and her tools, the Cardinal retrieved his record from the phonograph and carefully placed it back in the cardboard sleeve. He seemed a different man from the bundle of nerves she'd seen yesterday and it put her at ease.

“That piece was beautiful. What was it?”

“Don Quixote. It’s an old favorite.”

“Don Quixote? Is that by...Minkus?” She held her breath.

“Yes!” He looked delighted and surprised. “I’m partial to Baryshnikov’s version of the cups solo- so much personality in every gesture. Though I could never approach his mastery, even in my younger years."

“You dance beautifully,” she ventured, trying to see his reaction. Instead of nervous or embarrassed, he huffed a small laugh.

“Thank you. I’ve always been good at it. And I’ve always enjoyed it.” His confidence transformed him, his shoulders lifting and his back straightening. Then the smile slowly faded as he looked at the record in his hands. “It was a youthful pursuit, before other commitments took priority.” Brusquely, he shook his head and returned the album to the stack next to the phonograph. “Shall we?”

Questions flooded her mind but she was too timid to ask. With a nod, she handed him the prototype. “Try this on. I need to see the fit and mark for adjustments.” She handed him the prototype and he disappeared into the adjoining room.

Time passed and she began to fidget. Were the pants that poorly made? Could he not even get them on? Looking around the room to distract herself, she spotted the stack of vinyl records. After a few moment’s hesitation, she went to take a look.

On top was Don Quixote of course, and below that… ballets by Tchaikovsky and Prokofiev, operas by Mozart and Bizet, symphonies by Bach and Shostakovich, albums by B.B. King and the original Rat Pack and The Beatles and Goblin and more. So much music. She lingered over The Phantom of the Opera, remembering the first time she’d heard it in her bedroom on a cassette tape many years ago. All was quiet and still no sign of the Cardinal, so she carefully took the record out and placed it on the turntable. A flick of the switch and a drop of the needle, a quick buzz of static and then the sounds of her youth. 

The Overture began with such intensity. The music still moved her. The flurry of violins and memories brought tears to her eyes and the final rising notes filled her heart. She lifted the needle and stopped the record, her cheeks wet and a smile on her face.

The door opened slowly behind her and she jumped, frantically wiping her face. She quickly placed the record in its sleeve and began stammering an apology as she turned around. The look of sadness on his flushed face stopped her speech. His hand gripped the door-frame turning his knuckles white.

“That was... my predecessor’s favorite,” he whispered.

“I’m so sorry! I just.. I mean… I didn’t mean to -”

“Please,” he interjected, cutting her off. “I understand. Music is powerful and it says something different to each of us, yes?”

“Yes,” she agreed.

A few moments of hesitation and he released the door frame and straightened his shirt, then came to stand by the desk. For the first time she noticed the pants and she suddenly remembered why she was there. Her mouth went dry.

They were looser than the pants he wore on stage, but not by much. Somehow his legs looked even more muscular, the fabric accentuating his dancer’s thighs. The laces on the fly drew her eyes and she found it hard to look away. The fit wasn’t perfect but he looked amazing.

With difficulty she tore her gaze away and found her marking chalk. Were her hands sweating? Were they shaking? She had to clear her throat before she could speak.

“I’m going to check the fit and make some marks with the chalk,” she said.

“Of course. I am sorry it took me so long to change. These are not… my usual style. And the music...”

She nodded, lost for words, and began marking. There wasn’t much to change. Take in a bit around the calves, let out a fraction by the hips, mark a temporary hem around each cuff. The silence stretched and she felt the unease of the previous day returning. As she marked the ankles, he finally spoke.

“My predecessor was obsessed with the legend of the Phantom in all its forms.” With a slight frown he said, “I sometimes wonder if his copy of the Opera House and it’s underground grotto is the reason he’s… no longer around.”

“Papa had his own grotto? Underground? With a boat?” The extravagance shocked her but it certainly fit his personality.

“Yes. Beneath the theater he built for Church performances.”

Awkwardness forgotten, she stood and gaped. “Beneath it? I never knew!”

With a chuckle he said, “Yes, beneath his very own version of the Paris Opera House. He had the architects model the Church’s theater after it as closely as they could for the small space. He even had his own Box 5 with a secret passage, the old fool. He so loved the Phantom of the Opera.” The Cardinal paused and leaned slightly closer, almost conspiratorially. “Some called the whole thing ‘Papa’s Folly’ behind his back. Such a waste of resources! But the romance of it! Such a dreamer. I know how it is to have a vision that others don’t share.”

“You do?” She asked without thinking. He was very close to her and for once she didn’t back away or avert her eyes.

“All I wanted was to live my own life. To dance. To ride horses. To write. To fall in love. To grow old. But not everyone sees value in a simple life. Some people have higher ambitions, demand more of themselves and everyone around them.” His brow furrowed as his frown grew. His shoulders hunched as if pressed by a great weight.

“I’m so sorry you didn’t get to live that life,” she whispered.

He reached out to take her cold hands, his skin so warm and alive, as the frown disappeared from his face. “Don’t be sorry. I am very fortunate to be here, surrounded by wonderful people… like you.”

She couldn’t breathe and she couldn’t speak. What could she possibly say?

“You have worked so hard to do this task set to you by Imperator, and you are succeeding. I thank you.” His words make her heart drop into her stomach. He was thanking her for being his tailor, nothing more. Breath returned and it was her turn to frown. She withdrew her hands.

“You’re welcome, Cardinal. It’s really nothing.” 

A flash of confusion and his nervousness returned full force. Cheeks flushed, he turned and rushed to the other room to change, the door clanging loudly as he fled. She waited in silence this time, kicking herself for hoping for… what? What had she hoped for?

He returned more quickly this time and handed her the neatly folded pants. “I know you said this is nothing, but it is a lot of work and time. I must repay you somehow. How about a dance?”

Her cold skin turned to ice. “I can’t dance. I mean, I never have. I mean, I don’t think…”

But his eyes lit up, his face transformed with a smile. “Perfect! Then I can teach you! Tomorrow when you bring the final garment, we can have our first lesson! Ah, it’s been years since I taught anyone to dance! What do you say?”

He seemed so happy suddenly, and genuinely excited. Who could refuse?

“That sounds fine. Tomorrow then.”

“Tomorrow then! Anytime in the afternoon will be fine. And wear some shoes that are smooth on the bottom, that slide easily along the floor.”

“I will.” She retreated slowly so that he couldn’t tell how panicked she felt. When she closed his office door behind her, she saw her hands were shaking.


	4. Four … Alterations

## Four … Alterations

The final alterations were simple but she worked slowly, trying not to think about the next day. Still, her mind wandered as she finalized the seams, put the aglets on the laces and added tabs with buttons for the suspenders. The morning passed too quickly and the work was done. What now? She could send the finished product to the Cardinal via a messenger to avoid seeing him again. But he’d seemed so excited about the prospect of teaching dance. It was still early so she decided to catch up on her rest after that sleepless night. A quick nap and then she could decide what to do.

Her quarters were sparse but comfortable, and curled up by the window reading was her favorite way to relax. Inspired by her conversation with the Cardinal, she chose The Phantom of the Opera by Gason Leroux. Book in hand, she settled into her favorite armchair and bundled up in a warm quilt. The book had been on her reading list for a long time, but she’d never gotten around to it. In spite of her interest in the book, she soon found herself nodding, a sleepless night catching up to her. Head drooping, she fell asleep.

The stage of the Paris Opera House loomed before her. Above the stage hung a crystal chandelier. The Cardinal stood under it, bathed in the glittering light. He wore his red robes but also held his cane. He stared down at her commandingly, lifted the cane and slammed it onto the stage with a resounding boom.

Then she was standing under the lights herself, staring down at her bare feet peeking out from the hem of her black habit. She gripped the skirt in her fists and slowly looked up toward the Cardinal. He stood as before, cane in hand, haughty and commanding. What was she supposed to do? He lifted the cane and slammed it down again making her jump.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked desperately.

“To be yourself, of course!” he replied.

“What does that mean? I’m not a performer…”

He slammed down the cane again. “Don’t perform. Show me who you are. Be yourself!”

Heart pounding, knees shaking, stomach in knots. She was tired of being nervous, tired of worrying what everyone thought, tired of second guessing herself, tired of being restricted. She tore off her veil and threw it into the orchestra pit, shaking out her hair and taking a deep breath. She’d come to the Satanic Church to escape a society controlled by judgemental people and repressive religions, and instead of being free she’d just internalized all their criticism and dogma. She was holding herself back, stopping herself from truly being free and being herself. In one smooth motion, she swept the habit off over her head and threw it as far as she could. It billowed in the glittering light of the chandelier, a dark ghost falling into a darker pit beyond the stage.

She stood naked, center stage, unashamed, fully herself. The Cardinal tucked his cane under his arm and clapped. “Bravissima! A triumph!” he shouted. In the darkness of the theater the applause echoed and multiplied, and soon it seemed there were hundreds in the audience clapping just for her. The bright stage lights blinded her when she glanced toward the dark, but it didn’t matter. She was happy with herself and that was all she needed...

Slowly she swam to the surface of consciousness. It seemed to take forever while she floated in the grey area between dream and reality. When she finally opened her eyes, the light was beginning to fade. Late afternoon! In a panic, she jumped to her feet and ran.


End file.
